


Little Birds of the Appetite

by SylvanWitch



Category: Black Sails, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, Meet-Cute?, black sails au, reading is sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 22:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17568752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: Flint is just trying to read his Anais Nin in peace.  Why can't John Sheppard take a hint?





	Little Birds of the Appetite

**Author's Note:**

> From oldtoadwoman on the DW 15 Characters meme challenge, who asked: _1 and 6 have to share a table in a busy coffee shop. Which is most likely to be trying to hide the porn they were reading?_  
>  (One is John Sheppard, six James Flint)
> 
> This can be read as a companion piece to "Parley," in which I mention in passing that James Flint and John Sheppard are the godfathers of Ronon Dex and Charles Vane's daughter, but this story can also stand alone.

James Flint had long ago learned never to be ashamed of his appetites, so when the dark-haired man slouched into the open seat at his little bistro table with a grimace of apology—the place was packed at two o’clock on a Sunday afternoon—Flint didn’t bother to put his book away.

 

He didn’t even try to hide the title, expecting that the rules that governed subways and urinals—don’t make eye contact, don’t engage in conversation—would protect his private pleasures in this instance.

 

“Nin, huh?”

 

Flint glanced over the top of the page to find the man looking at him with honest interest.  Not even deigning to close the book, Flint spared him another three seconds of attention and then looked back at the page. 

 

“Alright, I get it,” the man continued in an easy, confident drawl.  “It’s none of my business what you read.  It’s just…I don’t see too many people enjoying Nin these days.  Usually, it’s all free Internet crap.”

 

This time, Flint closed the book over his finger to hold his place and met the other man’s eyes for a good fifteen seconds.  Then, with an internal sigh, he said, “Is there something you want?  Do I appear to be in need of your companionship, intimate or otherwise?  Am I a sad figure?  Out of place?  Did my sitting here quietly, minding my own business and reading a book suggest to you that I require your assistance to rescue me from a desperate and lonely life?”

 

He delivered all of this in a precise and measured tone that suggested he was not in the least bit interested in the other man’s answers to any of these questions.

 

The dark-haired man shrugged and gave an admittedly charming grin.

 

“I think you’d probably like some company, yeah.  Guys like you don’t read highbrow pornography in coffee shops—or anywhere else, for that matter—and it seemed like maybe you were hoping someone would notice.  You didn’t take any care to hide the cover.”

 

Flint didn’t need to consult the dust jacket to know that the moodily lit nude might attract prurient attention, but only the truly socially inept—or the suicidally self-confident—would have the stones to mention it to him. 

 

But the “guys like you” gave him pause.  Flint knew what he looked like, the impression he gave even at rest in a public place.  No one made the mistake of eye contact twice if Flint didn’t want to be disturbed, let alone attempt to engage him in conversation, as this man had done.

 

“Who sent you?  Was it Vane?”  He marked the page with a wooden stir-stick and put the book on the table.  He wanted his hands free for what might come next.

 

The man across the table put both hands up, palms facing Flint, in the universal sign for _whoa, let’s slow it down here_.

 

“No one sent me.  I saw you sitting here, reading Nin—who I happen to like, by the way—and thought I’d try my luck.  No harm, no foul, right?  I can take a hint.”  With these words, he stood, moving smoothly to gather up the coffee and the newspaper he’d so far ignored.

 

Flint watched the man scan the room, assess the people in it, take in both exits before moving, and before he could take more than a step, Flint said, “Wait.”

 

The man turned a boyish grin on him.  “Change your mind?”

 

“Sit,” Flint said, in a voice that had ordered men into perhaps far more perilous situations.

 

Somehow making a slump look graceful, the man resumed his seat, still grinning.  Flint got the impression that he’d done so because he wanted to anyway, not because Flint had made it a command.

 

“John Sheppard,” the man offered, both hands palms-up on the table— _no weapons here_.

 

“James Flint,” he answered, feeling a ghost wind blowing to life the embers of his interest in the stories of other men.  “So, what brings you to San Francisco, John Sheppard?” he asked, surprised to discover that he really did want to know.


End file.
